


Boundless

by JazzRaft



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-20 10:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: Personal space hasn't existed between the Prince and his Shield for a very long time. Sometimes, Gladio wonders if he should worry about it. Most times, he's happier to just let Noct have his way.





	Boundless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyEnterprize](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEnterprize/gifts).



> Merry Christmas from your no-longer-secret santa! I was immediately drawn to your request for Gladio & Noct, I love the tactile domesticity of Noct having no qualms about invading Gladio's personal space - and Gladio loving every minute of it. I hope this fulfills all your smitten Gladnoct needs for the holidays/new year! Have a great one!

“One ninety-two… What I don’t understand, is why can’t Éclair just jump into the Death Gate to go back in time, right before the moment the Usurper kills the King, to prevent it from ever happening?”

“Maybe for the same reason the Practitioner said she shouldn’t, back in the thirteenth chapter,” Gladio wheezed, pressing upwards on straining biceps. “One ninety-three.”

“But it _can’t_ be a fixed point in history!” Noctis was adamant, tearing back through the pages in desperate search of written proof to canonize his claim. “He can’t really be dead for good… Damnit, one ninety-four.”

“You should keep reading,” Gladio grunted, hissing through his teeth as he lifted up again. “One ninety-five.”

“Does he make it? Does she save him? Does she find a loophole in time and they live happily ever after? Shit, sorry, one-ninety six.”

“Read the book, Noct. I’m not spoiling the ending for you.”

“So, he _does_ live in the end? One-ninety seven. Is this another Crimson Mask situation? Like from the comic books? He comes back from the dead through a time paradox or something? Yeah, okay, no, he totally lives. She’ll save him. Can you do one hundred more so I can finish this?”

Gladio rolled his eyes and kept counting, dabbing his tongue along the salty, damp patch of sweat on his lips. He’d really like to see Noctis try two hundred push-ups – let alone a hundred more – with a hundred-something-pound prince and his tense tailbone digging into his back.

One-ninety eight, one-ninety nine… and two hundred. Done! Gladio dropped one knee to the mat and dragged his elbows down to the floor a beat later on a measured exhale. His blood rushed warm through his veins, muscles opening to the restful cooldown. Noct’s weight bore against his back, a solid comfort after the tension of lifting it, over and over again. He glanced over his shoulder at Noct, sitting cross-legged and hunched over the paperback epic in his white-knuckled grip.

He didn’t seem to notice that Gladio had stopped moving, making no indication, whatsoever, that he was prepared to move from his perch. Noctis stared at the final clump of pages, eyes traced with pink, unblinking strain, like if he shut them for a single second, he might miss a word. He might miss the epic conclusion where the heroine doesn’t even need to go back in time to save the King; where the epic twist that saves his life ends up being an act of love by the magical force which has no form, but has been woven into the fabric of the narrative from the very start.

Gladio sucked in a breath, bracing himself underneath Noct’s weight. A hundred more push-ups to finish fifty more pages? Ah, what the hell? Two hundred push-ups was child's play for him, anyway.

_Two hundred-one._ Boundaries and limitations had stopped existing between the two of them a long time ago. Well before the heated proximity of training takedowns had dragged into their first kiss. Long before the line between brothers-in-arms and lovers had been smudged out in the dust of the practice arena beneath the mat under him now. _Two hundred-two._

Nearness had always been a requirement for the Shield and the Crown. Gladio always knew he’d need to stay close, need to be within arms-length to serve the Prince like his father served the King before him. Clasping his arm to throw him behind his body; shoving his back to duck him to the floor and cover him if bullets started flying; taking his hand to execute an attack that every Crownsguard tutor had advised them against for the sheer recklessness and ridiculousness of tossing the Crown Prince off the blunt edge of a greatsword.

In hindsight, the casual collapse into being more than just comrades should have been no surprise to either of them. The necessary, physical closeness to fulfill their roles practically promised the inevitability of their more carnal desires. Of touching each other’s souls just as thoroughly as skin, as scars, as the muscle built from hauling swords and shields and fighting forms between their private lessons.

Gladio wasn’t certain if the nearness was a boon for understanding his charge even more intimately than the Shields which came before him knew their lords, or if it would cloud his judgment about him, instead. Circling through Noct’s apartment, fingering the key entrusted to him in his pocket, remembering the warmth in Noct’s smile as they pulled that much closer with the invitation that he was always welcome… He couldn’t find it in himself to doubt this.

Noctis announced his return with a loud, long, rankling groan, like the grind of the construction cranes miles below the Prince’s apartment, hauling their heavy loads through the late, last hour of work, eager to shut down for the night.

“You know how Ignis’s four pillars to the perfect speech include being ‘concise, comprehensive, charismatic, and captures the audience’s attention?’ Is the rest of the Council exempt from those rules, or were the tenements back in their day just ‘boring and blabbering?’”

“Nah. They just didn’t have an Ignis.”

“I’m willing to loan him out.”

Gladio snorted. He could already hear Iggy’s dry objections to being “pimped out for the Council’s conferences.” Even if Ignis wasn’t exclusive to the Prince’s tutelage alone, Gladio knew that – being the son of one of those “boring and blabbering” Councilmen – the King’s confidantes were just set in their ways. Like the stone sentinels which held the foundations of Insomnia in place, they were immovable to the evolving skyline of the city outside of their locked box memories. The brick slabs of everyday, uninspired discussions over trade and elections and alliances, were just an insufferable indulgence of a dying generation Noctis would have to endure until he succeeded the throne.

Until that day came – and, Gladio liked to hope, long after it came, too – he made ramen.

“Iggy might not be willing to share his services, but he was kind enough to let me share his kitchen.”

While he didn’t share his friend’s talent for restaurant quality entrees, he could at least make a _semi_ -homemade dinner for the exasperated prince. Learning to let himself tamper with the Cup Noodle formula had initially felt like a betrayal to all that was wholesome, and good, and pure in instant cuisine. But having Iris – whose tastes tended to prefer a little more creativity – and Ignis ease him into allowing a little doctoring to the standard, store-bought recipe, had helped Gladio learn how to enhance an already perfect base to make it at least somewhat gourmet.

“Sit and eat,” he commanded from the kitchen.

Noting Noct’s trajectory to the couch rather than the kitchen table, Gladio brought the two bowls of noodles to the coffee table instead. Gladio sat down and set the bowls on the table just in time to meet Noct’s full-bodied collapse onto the sofa, flopping straight into Gladio’s lap without any ceremony or respect for personal space. Noctis deflated on a pitiful, stuttering moan of relief, narrow torso dead-weighted across Gladio’s thighs, face smashed into his hip like he could hide from all his royal woes, right there in his Shield’s skin.

“What a hard day for you,” Gladio teased. “Sitting in a comfy chair, listening to people talk, not expected to move or exert any energy, whatsoever, for hours on end. Probably got to nap through half of it, have lunch served to you on a literal, silver platter…”

Noctis batted a blind hand up Gladio’s chest until he could paw at his mouth to stop talking. “Shut up and hold me. I’m your boyfriend and I’m miserable. You’re supposed to comfort me.”

Noctis took it upon himself to arrange Gladio’s arms the way he was supposedly expected to place them in his boyfriend’s time of mental anguish. He pulled one of Gladio’s hands up to pat it into his hair, encouraging him to pet and pull like he was a needy kitten. He pulled Gladio’s other arm around his back, and Noctis shifted himself onto his side so he could hug Gladio’s waist and curl his knees up closer.

“I made you comfort food,” Gladio said, uselessly, pining for the gingery vapors curling off the noodles.

“Mmm, smells good,” Noctis said, voice muffled against Gladio’s abdomen. He made no move to unlatch himself from Gladio to see if the food tasted as good as it smelled.

Gladio sighed, and sunk lower on the couch, adjusting himself for Noct’s human body pillow pleasure, thumbing through thick fronds of raven hair as his limb arrangement bid. Noctis made a small sound of contentment, nuzzling against Gladio’s belly.

“Comforting enough for you?” Gladio chuckled, nursing circles into the small of Noct’s back, where he knew that “comfy chair” in the Council’s chambers stiffened the scar tissue left behind by the Marilith.

“Much better,” Noctis murmured.

Dinner went cold as Noctis drifted off to sleep in Gladio’s lap, soft breaths puffing evenly against his shirt. Gladio timed the strokes of his fingers through his hair to each one.

He knew he should reconsider this. He knew he should address the thousands of reasons that this would all backfire and hurt the both of them in the end. They were both abusing their positions, both taking advantage and soiling a sacred bond between their bloodlines. They were _too_ close, too combined, too lacking in separateness to serve as a Shield was meant to with the Crown. He was supposed to be a part of Noctis, not consumed by him completely. He was supposed to have just enough distance to judge his king’s capabilities without affection excusing any of his faults.

He knew this, and he kept kissing Noctis anyway. He kept using the key to his apartment, kept grinding that line even deeper into the dust as he exchanged a key of his own with the Crown Prince he so adored. Kept spitting in the face of tradition with every night that Noctis slept over.

“Gladio.”

“Noct.”

“Please tell me you don’t have Cup Noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Dessert, too.”

Noctis shoved his arm, groaning in sleepy despair. His voice failed to make words strong enough to articulate his agony over Gladio’s dollar-shelf proclivities this early in the morning. Living with his hand inside the Amicitias’ sizable purse, Gladio knew that Noctis hoped he would splurge for some waffles, or a bagel, or _something_ other than Cup-freaking-Noodles to fill up his cabinets. But no, he had to take this whole “living on his own terms” thing a hell of a lot farther than Noctis was willing to, just to prove to himself that he could survive worse conditions for the sake of his prince’s well-being.

Not that a smartly balanced budget in a perfectly average, middle-class apartment was by any means forcing himself to scrape the bottom of the barrel not to starve. People had it worse off than his modest little arrangement. He and Noct both knew that, regardless of their insistence to live away from the Citadel, and on their own terms, they would never suffer the lack of privilege which came from a royal pedigree. Still, Gladio tried to uphold the illusion, tried to live within the means of an average, working-class Insomnian, just to prove that he wasn’t too coddled by the padded training rooms of his father’s household.

“You’ve got a problem, big guy. Is there a Cup Noodles Anonymous? I’m signing you up for it.”

Noctis yawned, helping himself to one such of the dreaded cups. He grumbled and groused unintelligible critiques about Gladio’s pantry and about how annoyingly long his sweatshirt sleeves were on his arms, flapping one of the cuffs back over his wrist so he could make himself what passed for breakfast in Gladio’s apartment. The sweats were three sizes too big on him, the Crownsguard pullover sloughing off his slim shoulders, gray sweatpants dragging in soft wrinkles after his heels.

“Do you at least have eggs?” Noctis asked, voice rough with sleep. “Or coffee?”

He dragged the flopping sleeve of Gladio’s hoodie over his eyes, waiting for the old kettle Gladio had picked up from a thrift store to fill with water from the faucet. Gladio forgot to answer, just smiling as he watched Noctis shuffle through his home like it was his own, assuming ownership of his food and his clothes and his heart. Noctis threw a bleary glance at him when he received no response, brow rising beneath the chaotic tangles of his bedhead hair.

“You awake over there, big guy?”

“Don’t think so. Pretty sure I’m still dreaming.”

“Because I’m as pretty as any dream?”

Gladio nodded, and Noctis gagged. He’d used that line before, copy and pasting most words of romance from the exaggerated dialogue in his guilty pleasure books. Gladio chuckled at Noct’s displeasure, waiting for him to light the stove and boil the water for noodles before stepping into his space. He bunched his hands into the over-sized sweater, searching for Noct’s skin beneath the blanketing fabric.

“I’ll run out and get us an actual breakfast,” Gladio said, kissing through a mouthful of messy, tousled hair to press the promise against his temple.

“Are you admitting that this” – Noctis shook the dry contents of the Styrofoam cup – “isn’t an ‘actual breakfast?’”

“Bagel with lox sound good?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. He shouldn’t have let Noctis claim every piece of his existence, possess him like a treasure instead of use him as his Shield, as something he could pick up and put back down again, not covet as something precious, something he needed to keep safe.

And yet, Gladio never felt like his worth as a Shield was lost in his affection for Noctis. When they weren’t in bed together, when they weren’t holding each other through the pains of the past – the scars on Noct’s back, on Gladio’s face, beneath the ink on his shoulders, beneath Noct’s skin that the world never saw – they were still the same. They were still friends.

They’d always loved each other, just in different forms. What made one more or less than the other?

What made Noct’s arms around his neck, whining for him to carry him the rest of the way to the outpost, any different from how he carried him through the uneven roads of royalty? Whether he kissed him or not, held his hand or not, let him into his closet, his fridge, his bed, his heart or not, he’d always loved Noctis the same. They were just a little closer than they had been before.

“I’m not a chocobo, y’know,” Gladio growled, hauling Noct’s knees beneath his elbows as the Prince clambered onto his back.

“I know, a chocobo wouldn’t complain so much.”

“You really think all those kwehs are thanking you for the weight on their backs?”

“Don’t ruin chocobos for me. I might never rent one again. Besides, you’re cheaper.”

“I can always start charging.”

“I’m handicapped, I get a discount if you do.”

Gladio snorted, watching Prompto and Ignis walk ahead of them on the sizzling black-top. Vast, green hills rolled down from the guardrails into Duscae, shade sparse this far out from the forests. Herds of garula dotted the fields like wooly, brown caterpillars from this distance, waddling through the grass, unbothered by the baking, summer sun. It was quiet, peaceful, for once, the skies clear of magitek shadows, providing them the slightest bit of relief as they trekked back to civilization.

“Knee acting up?” Gladio asked, finding his stride with the added weight of Noctis on his back.

Noct’s hair brushed up and down on his neck in a nod, always hesitant to admit when it did. It was easier for him to pretend he was lazy than concede to the weakness he wanted so badly to forget. Most days, he was stronger than it, made his own strength from the ache with Gladio’s help. But some days, after certain strains, he could only ignore it for so long before his legs threatened to buckle underneath him.

That’s when Gladio was there to pick him up, whether he asked for it or not. Whether they were lovers or friends or comrades. No matter how they defined the closeness between them, this would always be the same.

Lips brushed lightly against the shell of Gladio’s ear, and Noctis whispered a thin, “Thank you.” It was rare to hear, gratitude between them always an obligation of their position, always something unsaid and standard for who they were meant to be to each other.

Voicing it aloud, making more of the titles, acknowledging the nearness between them that defied the boundary between King and Shield, was a difference in their love for each other Gladio selfishly preferred. There were no walls between them. They were one. And Gladio would rather be a part of Noct than be used by him. The squeeze of the Prince’s arms around his neck told him he felt the same.

“I’ve got you, Noct.”

“Yeah, I know. Love you too, big guy.”


End file.
